


Not Quite Like You Imagined

by canis_lupus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, HP: EWE, M/M, Vampire Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 17:06:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1193007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canis_lupus/pseuds/canis_lupus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The taste of blood always makes Harry horribly nauseous. Not a fortunate thing if one is a vampire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite Like You Imagined

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the livejournal hpvamp Free Range Bunny Challenge II back in 2008.

Somewhere out there the gods were laughing, Harry was sure of it. 

Breathing deeply, he slowly took his head out of the toilet bowl. He stood, still weak in the knees, and wobbled over to the sink to splash some cold water on his face. Leaning his weight against the porcelain, he studied the man in the mirror. 

Pale skin, messy black hair. Black stubble shading his chin and cheeks. He should really shave again soon. Green eyes that seemed larger than they were in his narrow face. Lashes he’d been told more than once were sinful, long and thick and charcoal-black. A reddish gleam in his pupils that was the only obvious sign of his ‘condition’. 

Well, that, and maybe the fact that he was currently standing in his dark bathroom in the middle of the night and hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights. He didn’t need them. 

Because Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, the Chosen One, the Hope of the Light, the Defeater of Voldemort, was a vampire. Didn’t life just roll on irony?

He sighed, turned away from the mirror, and slowly walked into his bedroom, not entirely sure whether his legs were quite cooperating. Gratefully, he sank down onto the softness of his mattress, crawling between sheets and duvet and pillows, all of the highest-quality cotton money could buy. 

With the Turning had come a heightening of all his senses, and maybe most disturbing of all had been getting used to touch. Smell and taste were not always easy to handle, nor was sound, but touch was the thing he had never given a second thought to. Not until the day when every rough surface felt like broken glass and fabric he had always considered soft chafed like sandpaper. He found he could not bear anything but the finest materials on his skin. Cotton, silk and leather were acceptable if they were soft and subtle enough, but any synthetic fibre was torture, and he wasn’t even going to think about ordinary wool. Angora and cashmere were a possibility, but other than that, he’d sooner go naked. 

Not all myths about vampires were true, of course. He did have a reflection, and he did not burst into flames should a stray ray of sunlight hit him. However, it was much too bright for his eyes and too hot for his skin, which pretty much forced him into a nocturnal routine if he wished to go outside, and might explain the origin of that particular belief. He was not immortal, either, and as far as he could tell, his soul was perfectly fine, thank you very much. Unfortunately, for him, it was true that he required blood. Not gallons of it, and he ate perfectly normal food otherwise, but he did need to supplement his diet with a few sips of blood every few days. He hated it. Whether it was the war, or whether it had always been that way, the smell and taste of blood turned his stomach. The first few times he had drunk, he’d promptly thrown up. Which certainly didn’t help things, since it didn’t taste any better in combination with bile. Quite the contrary. Most of the time he managed to keep it down by now, but it was always a fight, hence his recent stint in front of the toilet. 

Surely, someone up there hated him. Who else but _Harry Potter_ would be turned into a vampire who couldn’t stomach blood?

Slowly, as he relaxed into the softness of his bed, his stomach settled down. He could still taste the tang of blood in the back of his throat, but he did his best to ignore that. No matter what he did, and he had tried everything he could think of, he knew he wouldn’t be rid of that taste for hours. It was probably psychological. 

Dawn outlined the edges of his heavy, dark grey curtains, and as his heartbeat calmed, he felt the first stirrings of arousal. Another drawback of his condition, or at least his version thereof.

His hunting strategy was age-old and approved by tradition: go to nightclub (or the historical equivalent), flirt with unsuspecting victim, snog, bite, drink, shag. Only, for him that was: go to nightclub, flirt, snog, bite, drink, run home as fast as possible and try not to puke all over poor, unsuspecting victim. 

And the nausea managed to kill his hard-on each and every time. Unfortunately, with the departure of the nausea his arousal returned, and he was alone. He sighed. Everything would be so much easier if it weren’t for his little “blood problem”. He could get off with his victim as every other vampire did, hell, he would probably even enjoy the biting. From everything he had heard, from what he had learned in school, he was _supposed_ to enjoy the taking of blood. And making his victims enjoy it was simply good business, because it meant a higher probability of a repeat performance. But that strategy didn’t work for him, since being sick was not an erotic sensation at all-

-Leaving him aroused and lonely at the end of the night. 

He sighed again, reached down with a hand, and finished the way he always finished a “feeding” night. At least he wouldn’t need to worry for another couple of days.

***

The music was loud even through the dampening charm Harry had on his ears to prevent his eardrums from bursting, the smell of sweat and sex a heavy cloud over the crowd in the nightclub, sending his heart pounding in excitement. Coloured lights flashed over the masses of moving bodies on the dance floor and made it hard to see much. Harry was pressed up against a broad, muscular chest, the arm around his waist almost as thick as his lower thigh.

The man who was going to be his snack of the day was tall and had the figure of a semi-professional body-builder. He reminded Harry a little of Bill Weasley, although the long, smooth hair in the ponytail was probably auburn, not red. But the similarity was enough to get Harry interested, and the guy was just the sort of gay man who was very happy about Harry’s company. 

Now, Harry wasn’t exactly _small_ , and certainly not effeminate, either, but he was very solidly medium-sized, and no one would ever get the idea to call him “tall”, much to his chagrin. The growth spurt he had been hoping for had never come, and so he stayed just short and slender enough to earn, in combination with his facial features, the frequent description of “pretty”. He wasn’t particularly happy with it, but he supposed there were worse things for a gay man than being considered pretty, and it came in handily enough when he was out prowling for prey. Muggles, being ignorant of the existence of vampires, never considered him dangerous, and usually had no problem with letting him near their necks. No wizard, no matter what Harry looked like, would ever let him do that. Where Muggle parents might warn their children against taking candy from strangers, wizards’ kids were apprised of the dangers of letting nice people close to their blood. 

So Harry, like all the other vampires, preyed on the ignorant Muggles, and since the narcotic and healing properties of his saliva kept his victims ignorant of what he was doing, he didn’t even feel particularly bad about it. Now, if only he could enjoy being wrapped up in the arms of an attractive man, and look forward to what he was going to do without the reluctance coiling in his stomach...

He closed his eyes with a sigh and relaxed back against the swaying body behind him, let the pounding rhythm of the music, the heady scent of the crowd, the thrill of the hunt lull him back into the half-hungry, half-horny state of mind of his vampiric instinct. Soon enough, his blood was thrumming with excitement again while thoughts were vague and far-away things. He opened his eyes and just let all the sights and sounds and scents and feelings wash over him, through him, in all their preternatural intensity. 

He didn’t know how long it was before he became aware that his gaze had become fixed on one particular man, seconds or minutes or hours (though the latter was unlikely). 

He was dancing on the slightly raised stage in the middle of the room, where bands sometimes played live music at other nights, this night just another part of the dance-floor. It was the way he moved, Harry thought, that had drawn his eyes. Swaying, twisting to the music, smooth and sensuous, hypnotic. The lights washed over his bare back, highlighting sleek muscle and unblemished skin, broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His hair was very light, from the way every strobe made it flash a different colour. It was short, allowing Harry glimpses of a graceful, strong, delicious neck arching up into clumpy, sweat-darkened strands. Yes, Harry had (what a cliché) developed something of a fetish for a beautiful neck. This one definitely made the list. It was further accentuated by the sweep of black colour across the man’s shoulder-blades. A tattoo, its fine, detailed craft visible even through the unsteady light and across the distance of the crowd, of a pair of wings, moving with every ripple of muscle and bone. 

The arm around Harry’s waist tightened, brought his attention back to his immediate surroundings. 

“Fancy a drink?” his dance partner yelled into his ear. Unfortunately, a dance-floor didn’t lend itself to seductive murmuring. Harry nodded, because that was what he was here for, after all. Not that his victim knew that.

***

Harry had only taken a cursory couple of sips from his drink before he put it aside, plucked the glass out of the fingers of his dance partner, and dragged the surprised man over to a sort-of-private corner, where he engaged in snogging the life out of him. Merlin, he was horny. And hungry. But mainly horny. He hadn’t actually slept with anyone since the Turning, and that had been over a year ago.

The man (Harry hadn’t bothered asking for a name) still seemed slightly surprised by the assault, but complied willingly enough. Honestly, why some guys always seemed to expect him to be some shy, passive little thing was beyond Harry. He certainly wasn’t, and he never pretended to be. 

Soon enough, however, the surprise faded away, and Harry, much to his delight, found himself pressed up against the wall, one large, strong hand cupping his arse and holding some of his weight so he didn’t need to stand on tip-toes, his arms wrapped around a set of nice, broad shoulders, kissing messily and grinding together. The pressure of the other man’s body helped keep him up where he could comfortably reach his lips, and Harry enjoyed himself immensely. Now if only the night would hold what it promised...

He broke the kiss to trail his lips along the man’s strong jaw-bone, slowly starting to work towards his eventual destination. Almost without his volition, one of his legs came up to wrap around his victim’s hips. A deep moan was his reward as the movement pushed their erections together more firmly through the layers of their clothes. The leather of his trousers creaked. 

He trailed one hand over a broad shoulder, briefly combed his fingers through the ponytail, then pressed his palm against the side of the neck, well-muscled like the rest of the man he was currently wrapped around. He could feel the pulse fluttering against his hand, fast and hot. Even that small bit of skin-on-skin contact felt heavenly. Craving more, he ran his hand down into the open collar of the shirt. He had to undo a few more buttons, but then he could reach in and touch skin, over shoulder and collar-bone and down from there a little. The feel of some chest hair rasped across his finger tips, and he wondered whether Bill would feel like this, taste like this. He placed a soft kiss right against the underside of the jaw where the skin was always so soft and fragile, and licked down the side of the neck, the side his hand hadn’t been on. 

It was a shame, truly, that Bill was as straight as they came. The man was a walking wet dream, and Harry had had a crush on him since he’d first seen him at the age of fourteen, not that he’d realized what it was back then. But he would never have a chance to fulfil that particular fantasy, so a night with a stranger who reminded him of Bill would be the best he would ever get. A night that wasn’t going to continue for much longer. But blood and feeding was close, and rational thought was hard to come by, with the hunger roaring in his ears, burning through his body, drowning out almost everything else. Even the need for sex, for completion, was but a fleeting impression far away. 

Skin, delicious, soft skin under his nose and lips, moist and fragrant with perspiration, saturated with blood, so close, so _inviting_... 

He trailed small, biting kisses along the neck, down to the place above the collar-bone where biting was easiest if he didn’t go for the throat, making sure his victim wouldn’t be surprised by the press of teeth. He buried his nose there for a moment, inhaling deeply the intoxicating scent. The pressure in his gums that was his fangs descending brought a tiny moan from his throat, and then he licked his chosen spot, narcotic saliva blinding the nerve-endings to the pain to come, and bit down. 

The sensation of his fangs penetrating the flesh was almost as erotic as if it had been another body part altogether doing any penetrating, and he moaned deeply, his hips twitching, before he withdrew them again, sealed his lips around the wound and _sucked_. 

The first swallow of blood was a fiery pleasure down his throat unlike anything else he knew. Then the taste hit, his gorge was rising, and he squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to continue drinking. The fog of lust and hunger tore from his brain like a rotted curtain in a storm wind, and too suddenly he was all too aware of where he was and what exactly he was doing. His aversion to blood _always_ managed to break him out of his vampiric mind-set. He guessed there were some advantages to that, such as that he was unlikely to ever kill someone because he got lost in the drinking, but the disadvantages were considerable. Like forcing himself to keep swallowing while all of his being rebelled against it. Like being thrust back into reality, into the awareness of his surroundings, the slightly dingy wall, the sordidness of what they were doing, rutting up against that wall, the crowd that suddenly looked pasty-faced and frantic, like some strange, many-headed creature, twitching hysterically under the whip of the music, zombie-like and meaningless. 

Oh yes, Harry really disliked the instant depression that always followed the high of the hunt. He licked the wound closed, then pushed the man away from him. Fortunately, he never had any problems convincing his partners he wasn’t feeling so well all of a sudden. One look at his face, and they usually were all concerned sympathy. Harry suspected he must look positively green after feeding. 

He mumbled his usual excuses, declined a ride home, shooed the guy back onto the dance-floor, and staggered his way out of the club. 

A short cab-ride later, he finished the night with his head in the toilet, just in case, and waited for the worst of the nausea to pass. He had only Apparated _once_ after feeding. Suffice it to say, that feeding had been for nothing, and cleaning blood out of carpet was a bitch, even with magic.

***

With a deep sigh, Harry faced his mirror. It had been four days, and he really couldn’t wait any longer. He _had_ to go out and feed. He didn’t want to, he whined to himself, feeling like a petulant five-year old who was forced to eat his vegetables. Sometimes, when it struck him anew that he would have to keep doing this for the rest of his life, for years and years, he felt _very_ depressed. It just didn’t seem fair. Hunting felt _so_ good, not to mention biting, but then... the taste of blood had to spoil it all. Times like these, he really envied the other vampires who could integrate their needs so much easier.

He reached for the razor and started scraping the black stubble from his face. Looking pretty was an asset on the hunt, but on the days in between, he kept the stubble even though it itched at times. It made him look scruffy, yes, but also older and more masculine. If being “cute” wasn’t such a sure-fire way of drawing in unsuspecting victims, he’d keep the stubble all the time, or maybe even go for some sort of beard. As it was, he shaved only when he was about to hit the clubs. 

There wasn’t much he could do with his hair besides rubbing some hair gel into it to make it look as if he actually wanted it to stand up all over the place, and after a last look in the mirror, he was ready for another hunt. Excitement flared up in him at the prospect. He might hate the taste, but his body craved fresh blood.

It was still early, the club not yet very full, as he sat down at the bar and ordered himself a drink. He was sipping it slowly, enjoying a few quiet minutes before he would turn around and start cruising for a suitable victim, when the air shifted next to him, disturbed currents brushing his skin, bringing with them the smell of “human, male, anticipatory” and a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye. It seemed he wouldn’t need to look far tonight. There was plenty of empty space around him, but the man slid onto the barstool right next to his and leaned closer.

“Well, well, well... fancy meeting _you_ here.” 

Harry had been prepared for a pick-up line. What he hadn’t been prepared for was for it to be delivered in a drawl he was all too familiar with, or the pair of equally familiar, cool grey eyes he looked into when he turned his head reflexively. For a moment, he couldn’t do much more than blink, while his brain tried to come to terms with the incongruous image before him: Draco Malfoy. Next to him, at the bar, of a night-club. A _Muggle_ night-club. A _Muggle, gay_ night-club. Wearing Muggle clothes, even. 

At first, he was almost sure he was hallucinating. How could Malfoy be here, in this club, talking to him? How could that head not be sticking out of a pair of traditional, flapping Wizard’s robes? How could he, instead, be wearing a tight, white t-shirt and a pair of low-riding blue jeans, the fabric stretching tightly, not hiding much of anything, over a long, well-muscled, sinfully sleek body?... How could Harry be checking out that body?

He blinked and forced his eyes back to Malfoy’s, whose knowing glint told him his little slip had been duly noted. 

“Small world, isn’t it, Potter?” Malfoy drawled when Harry didn’t answer for a few seconds, his tone as sarcastic as ever, but with a thread of amusement underlying it and none of the usual venom. 

“Malfoy. What are _you_ doing here?” Well, all right, not the most original of responses, but Harry was still trying to come to terms with the fact that Malfoy was _there_. He hadn’t seen the other since the end of the war, over a year ago. Before that, there had been a few random encounters in an Order context, where they had both done their level best to ignore each other, since that was the closest they could come to a working relationship. Malfoy might have turned spy during the war, but Harry had never felt any inclination to let that change the way he felt about the other man. They might have been on the same side, but that didn’t mean he had to _like_ Malfoy. On the whole, he didn’t pay much attention at all to his former rival, since he had far more important things to worry about and no energy to spare on silly school-boy fights. 

He certainly had never noticed what a glorious body Malfoy was hiding under those flowing robes. In fact, he had never noticed how positively good-looking Malfoy had turned out all around. The pale, pointy-faced boy he had met almost a decade ago for the first time had turned into one beautiful young man. His hair was still as pale as ever, and the bridge of his nose still formed a slightly concave line, but his jaw had filled out, and in combination with the high cheek-bones, it gave Malfoy’s face a sharp, aristocratic, border-line androgynous beauty. Harry wondered whether Malfoy also got called “pretty” a lot. He doubted it, though. He was too edgy, too angular for “pretty”, and if that wasn’t enough, the cool, calculating look in his eyes certainly forbid it.

Malfoy leaned a bit closer, underarms sliding across the surface of the bar, fingers loosely tangled together, moving into Harry’s private space with the sensual grace of a stretching cat. 

“Why, I thought that would be obvious. I drink, I dance, I look for some company.” The tone was mocking, but there was still amusement behind it, enough that Harry didn’t feel particularly insulted. 

“So, tell me,” There was an eager gleam in Malfoy’s eyes as he leaned another bit closer, “is it true?”

Harry frowned at him. “Is what true?”

“That you, y’know, got infected. That you’re a vampire.”

Harry blinked once, slowly, the only sign of surprise he allowed himself.

“Where’d you hear _that_?” he asked, as if that was the most nonsensical thing he’d heard in a long time. Unfortunately, Malfoy remained unperturbed. 

“The _Prophet_ said so. Claimed to have some source on staff at St Mungo’s who’d swear they’d brought you in from the final battle with a vampire bite.”

“And you believe the _Daily Prophet_?” Harry retorted dryly. 

Malfoy simply shrugged, t-shirt rasping over his skin with the movement.

“Not particularly, no,” he answered, sounding unconcerned. Then his eyes fixed themselves back on Harry’s, and the look in them was completely at odds with his tone, burning in intensity. “But none of your close friends or family denied the claim. Oh, there was a lot of outrage and waffling about your privacy and some such, but no one came right out and said you _weren’t_ a vampire. Sounds like dissembling to me. Plus, no one’s seen hide nor hair of you for a year. Now why would you hide somewhere the Wizarding Press can’t find you, which could only be in the Muggle world?”

“’Cause I like my privacy and hate those vultures?” Harry asked ironically and took a sip of his drink. Malfoy smirked.

“I’m a Slytherin, Potter, these games don’t work on me. All that dissembling... Come on. Tell me the truth.”

Harry couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “Why would I?”

At that, Malfoy lost the smirk, and something that could almost be called a pout settled on his face. “’Cause I want to know. Come _on_. If you’re not a vampire, just say so. Just look me in the eye and tell me you’re not a vampire.”

“Fine!” Harry huffed and turned fully towards Malfoy. “I’m a vampire. There. Satisfied?”

It was quite funny to watch Malfoy blink his way through his surprise at _that_ answer. Obviously, he still hadn’t quite expected it. Then the surprise faded, to be replaced by the intensity from before, only this time, there was something else in it, as well. Harry wondered whether he shouldn’t have told Malfoy, after all. There was something predatory, hungry, flickering in his eyes. 

“You are? Really?” Malfoy asked, and was it just Harry’s imagination, or had his voice gone just a little bit hoarse? He rolled his eyes.

“No, I’m making it up because I want to be staked by the Ministry. Yes, _really_.”

“In that case, I’ll buy you a drink,” Malfoy said decisively, and without giving him an opportunity to decline by waving for the bartender immediately. Harry raised an eyebrow again. 

“Shouldn’t you be running the other direction, screaming in horror or something?” he couldn’t help asking. Malfoy arched a mocking eyebrow at him.

“Now why would I do that?” 

Harry couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the partly superior, and partly teasing tone.

“Gee, well, I don’t know... Maybe because I’m a blood-sucking Dark creature which is not even classified as a ‘Wizard’, and your parents should have warned you to keep your neck safe from the likes of me?”

Malfoy threw his head back and laughed, actually laughed, full-throated and delighted. It was a sound Harry couldn’t remember ever hearing before but one he could certainly stand to hear again. Malfoy was also flashing him his throat something awful. It was a very nice throat, white and smooth, with little blue veins sneaking under the skin, pulsating with hot, fresh blood... 

Malfoy stopped laughing and Harry needed a blink to focus back on his face. If Malfoy noticed, he didn’t give any sign of it, and his grey eyes were still full of mirth, more alive, brighter, than Harry had ever seen them. 

“And such a pretty Dark creature you are,” Malfoy purred with a teasing smirk. “I’m not scared of you, Potter. Never was, never will be. You’re still you, after all. Stupidly heroic Gryffindor with more idealism than sense in your head.”

Well... Harry wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. Had he just been insulted, or complimented?

“Thanks... I think,” he replied dryly and emptied his original drink. Malfoy grinned at him, seeming inordinately pleased with himself, but not in a way that made Harry want to smack him, astonishingly enough. The Slytherin seemed more relaxed and less confrontational than Harry had ever seen him. Well, that might have something to do with the fact that he was quite blatantly hitting on Harry. What Harry couldn’t work out was why he was letting him. The reasonable part of his brain was telling him to get the hell away from Malfoy, because the blond could only mean trouble. The rest of him, however, was quite happy where he was. To his surprise, he realized that he was actually enjoying the banter. It didn’t hurt that Malfoy was sprawling that gorgeous body of his all over the place, either.

“So,” Malfoy put his elbows on the bar, his glass cradled in his fingers, while his eyes never left Harry’s face, “what are _you_ doing here, then?”

Harry considered lying for a moment, then he shrugged.

“Hunting,” he answered blandly, and reached for the second drink the bartender had left in front of him at a gesture from Malfoy, together with the glass Malfoy was currently taking a sip from. Malfoy only raised an interested eyebrow, seemingly not put off at all by the topic of conversation. 

“Got to get it from somewhere, don’t I?” Harry replied to the unspoken question. He only realized the possible innuendo when Malfoy’s lips quirked up in a smirk.

“I’m sure you do,” the blond drawled, and flicked his eyes up and down Harry’s body without the smallest attempt at subtlety. 

“I _was_ talking about blood,” Harry couldn’t help but point out. “And I’m hardly going to find it in the Wizarding world.”

“So, what, you grab yourself a Muggle, then what?” Malfoy actually _did_ seem interested in the topic, which was plain weird. He was a human, he should be disturbed by all this talk about drinking human blood. But then, he was a Slytherin and what was more, he was _Malfoy_ , and he’d never been overly concerned with other people’s well-being. 

“Flirt, snog, bite,” Harry recited with a shrug, letting some of the smooth alcohol in his glass run down his throat. It was a little like that very first gulp of blood, before the taste registered. He wondered whether for other vampires, it was all like that first gulp. Well, he guessed he would never know.

“Sounds delicious.” Again, Malfoy was _purring_ , and giving him a dark, heated look. “Of course, this is a gay club.” 

It wasn’t a question, but the way Malfoy just put the statement between them, it demanded some sort of answer.

“Really?” Harry replied in his own drawl, and made a show of looking around. “I hadn’t noticed,” he finished, keeping his voice devoid of inflection when he looked back at Malfoy, face deadly serious.

Malfoy’s lips quirked up again (and he really had nice lips to go with the rest of his nice body, light pink, rather narrow, but perfectly shaped), and he slipped down from his bar stool. Harry had to turn slightly on his own stool and tilt up his head to keep his eyes on the Slytherin now standing before him, quite closely. Malfoy reached out a hand and Harry wondered whether this was good-bye, Malfoy’s mysterious cue to leave. Then he wondered at the pang of disappointment that thought produced in his chest.

“Well then, Potter,” and the disappointment grew, “fancy a dance?”

Having expected some sort of excuse for leaving, Harry needed a moment to process that request and shift gears. Malfoy was still standing there, hand outstretched, predatory come-hither smile playing on his lips, grey eyes dark and intense. He looked seductive, and dangerous, and Harry thought that he would make a much better vampire than he did. Without really thinking about it, he reached out his own hand and let it settle into Malfoy’s and then he was tugged of his bar stool and steered towards the dance floor.

***

It didn’t quite stay “a” dance. Hours later, Harry was still out on the dance floor with Malfoy. Or rather, again. They had stopped twice for a couple more drinks. By now, Harry was _really_ pretty sure that this was a bad idea. Combined with his bloodlust, he had had way too much to drink to stay even remotely sober. Add the serious state of arousal he was in, and he felt higher than he’d possibly ever been. Colours were swimming in front of his eyes, movement was jumping out at him in preternatural clarity. The beat of the music was pulsing in his belly like a living thing, the music itself an incoherent waterfall of sound. The scents surrounding him slid down his throat like thick, salty-sweet liquid.

Malfoy was plastered to his back, Harry’s very favourite position for dancing, his breath rushing hot and moist over his ear, one of his arms firmly around Harry’s waist, fingers splayed provocatively over his stomach. It was ridiculous how well they fit together like this. Malfoy was just the perfect couple of inches taller than Harry to make resting his head back on Malfoy’s shoulder the most natural thing to do. His arm was just at the right height to fit comfortably around Harry’s waist, and they aligned smoothly, shoulders to feet, no awkward manoeuvring necessary. 

Malfoy moved his head, and then his lips touched Harry’s ear, immediately followed by the slow swipe of a wet tongue along the shell. At the same time, the hand around Harry’s waist slid down. A slight tug on his shirt, and the fingers skated back up again, on his skin this time, while Harry’s brain still tried to catch up with things. For a moment, he had thought Malfoy was actually going to try to jerk him off right there on the dance floor, and while what they were doing was already a lot closer to vertical sex than it was to actual dancing, Harry wasn’t gone quite that far. But now Malfoy’s warm, warm skin was sliding over his, and Harry couldn’t stop a soft moan while his body practically melted into Malfoy’s touch. His head dropped back on Malfoy’s shoulder, and then Malfoy was ravishing his exposed neck, sucking and licking and biting softly. 

Some part of his brain was clamouring for attention, trying to point out that being this vulnerable with Malfoy of all people was _not_ something he wanted to do, but that was a very distant part. Sensation washed back in, swamping his awareness. There was only the warm wetness of Malfoy’s lips and tongue on the sensitive skin of his neck, the occasional hard press of teeth, the solid heat of his body behind Harry’s, moving, rubbing against him with the beat of the music, and the slide of his fingers against Harry’s stomach, warm and damp and slick with both their sweat. Harry’s breath was shallow, and if Malfoy continued touching him like this for much longer, he might just come right there. Hell, if it wasn’t for the tight fit of his trousers, he might already have done so. 

The arm around his waist vanished, and Harry couldn’t help a little mew of disappointment, even as he was spun around on his shoulders. He found himself facing Malfoy, who raised one hand to slide it into Harry’s hair and tip his head back, while the other landed in the small of his back, pressing him close again. He had time for one blink up into Malfoy’s face (very close face), register the look of pure lust in his eyes, pupils dilated so far there was almost nothing of the grey iris left, then Malfoy’s mouth was on his, and he was kissed hungrily, demandingly. 

It was probably one of the best kisses Harry had ever had. Well, that might be his intoxicated state talking, but then, maybe it wasn’t. Malfoy, in any case, didn’t waste time with chaste exploration, no, his tongue plunged right into Harry’s mouth and proceeded to devour him. It didn’t take Harry long to catch up and give as good as he got.

After a little while, Harry wasn’t quite sure how long, he realized that they had stopped any pretence at dancing whatsoever, but instead were happily molesting each other right in the middle of the dance floor. At some point, Malfoy’s hand had dropped from his waist and was now grabbing his arse, pressing their very aroused bodies together with considerable strength, while Harry’s arms had ended up around Malfoy’s shoulders, one hand buried in the sweat-sodden strands at Malfoy’s neck while the other clenched a fistful of Malfoy’s t-shirt.

They broke off for a moment, both gulping in large lungfuls of air, then Malfoy dived in again for another short, bruising kiss. Harry blinked when Malfoy pulled away again and stepped back. Then, after a heavy, carnal look, his hand was grabbed and he found himself being dragged out of the club. Malfoy barely gave him time to collect his leather jacket at the front before they stepped out.

***

The night air outside was like a cool wall hitting them. It managed to shock Harry out of his drugged state of mind enough to make him at least _realize_ again how far gone he was. Not that that was much help.

Malfoy turned around and dragged him into an embrace by the hand he had been holding. He cocked his head slightly to the side and looked down at Harry with a smile full of dark promise.

“So,” he murmured huskily, “your place or mine?”

Harry had trouble stringing together a coherent thought, much less a sentence, but he realized he didn’t want Malfoy to know where he lived, and he was in no state to Apparate. 

“Yours,” he managed to croak out of his parched throat. The last thing he saw before the street vanished was Malfoy’s delighted, self-satisfied smile.

***

When the discomfiting tug and swirl of Apparition had passed, Harry found himself in a dark, spacious room, clinging to Malfoy’s shirt. A polished hardwood floor was gleaming under his shoes, pale walls, dark drapes drawn in front of the windows. He caught a glimpse of two doors in the opposite wall, one closed, one open to the tiled floor and faintly gleaming porcelain of a bathroom, then Malfoy pushed him off-balance, and the back of his knees hit the edge of a bed. Malfoy followed him down, and then his mouth was being ravished again while his fingers encountered the smooth rasp of satiny bedcovers as he attempted to catch himself.

At least Malfoy had an appreciation for quality fabric, he thought hazily. Well, of course he did. He was Malfoy, after all. 

This completely irrelevant trail of thought was derailed when the man in question broke the kiss, only to roughly drag Harry’s shirt over his head and dispose of it somehow, quickly followed by his own. One hand slid back into his hair and urgently pushed their mouths back together for another passion-laden kiss while the other started to stroke possessively across Harry’s skin. Harry moaned at the exquisite contrast of Malfoy’s warm, almost hot fingers and palm on his exposed, sweat-soaked skin which was quickly cooling in the air. 

Malfoy scooted around and adjusted his angle slightly, and Harry followed the movement, all the while kissing back eagerly. They ended up sitting at the edge of the bed, mostly facing each other. Harry rested most of his weight on his arms, his fingers digging into the satin, while Malfoy kept his grip on his hair at the back of Harry’s head, one leg folded beneath him, the other thrown over Harry’s. Even that contact made Harry moan into the kiss, just the living, warm weight and feel of denim against leather thrummed along his high-strung body. 

Malfoy’s tongue ran along his upper teeth and he broke the kiss once more.

“No fangs?” he asked, sounding out of breath and slightly... disappointed?

“Retracted,” Harry murmured distractedly while his eyes travelled over the man before him. Such smooth, white skin, everywhere... Sleek muscle played under it, subtle but well-defined. Malfoy noticed his look, by the way one corner of his lips turned up in a satisfied half-smile, half-smirk. He cocked his head and took his hand from behind Harry’s head to tuck one sweat-darkened blond strand behind his ear. Whether it was intentional or not (and Harry was beginning to suspect that it was, in fact, intentional), the action drew Harry’s attention to Malfoy’s neck. Malfoy’s long, smooth, white, _perfect_ neck, arched as if in invitation, bare and vulnerable, blood rushing, pulse fluttering under the thin surface with every rapid beat of Malfoy’s heart. Harry’s breath grew choppy, and he barely registered the whimper that escaped his throat as his eyes stayed glued to that tempting, jumping spot just above the collarbone. Even _his_ eyes couldn’t make out the blue vein in the dim light, but he could smell the blood, saturated with adrenalin, lending its delicious flavour to top off Malfoy’s scent, sweaty and male and aroused... So heady, so delicious, so full of _lust_... He was so hungry.

Almost without his volition, he leaned forward, closer to that sweet, sweet spot. Instead of retreating, panicking, or having some other kind of adverse reaction, as Harry vaguely realized _should_ be the case, Malfoy tilted his chin up and lowered his shoulder, now blatantly displaying his neck. Harry’s hands encountered rough denim as he rested his hands on Malfoy’s thighs for balance. His eyes slid closed as he buried his nose in between neck and shoulder, and his fangs descended when he licked along the thudding vein. So close... 

A hand grabbed the back of his neck and pushed him even closer.

“Go on, Potter,” Malfoy whispered, voice hoarse and thick with arousal, “Bite me!” 

So Harry did.

His teeth sank home, and he vaguely registered a moan that wasn’t his own. His lips closed around the wound, his body thrummed with excitement...

His throat clogged, saliva flooded his mouth, and his stomach practically _jumped_ into his throat.

He threw himself off of Malfoy, off the bed, and stumbled as fast as inhumanly possible to the bathroom, hand pressed to his mouth. Every step was a battle against the nausea, one he was rapidly losing. 

He only just made it. His stomach heaved the moment his knees hit the floor and his head was over the toilet, and he lost the mouthful of blood he had taken, and a good deal of the alcohol he’d drunk earlier. While his body shuddered and his stomach clenched painfully in revulsion, he berated himself for his stupidity. Four days without blood, and he had to get drunk! When he knew exactly that alcohol affected him far stronger when he hadn’t fed in a while, knew that his inhibitions were lowered, too! But no, he let Malfoy get him sloshed, he let Malfoy bloody _seduce_ him into taking blood! Why anyone would do that, he had _no_ idea, but Malfoy had done it, and done it well, too. With any other vampire, Malfoy could have gotten himself killed. With Harry, well, he just succeeded in making him sick. If he wasn’t rational enough to steel himself for drinking, well... this happened. 

Exhausted, he rested his head on the arm he had braced over the rim of the toilet, not sure whether it was over. _Way to ruin the mood, Potter!_ he thought sarcastically. 

There was the sound of rushing water next to him, and when he looked up (no doubt looking as miserable as he felt,) Malfoy was standing there, extending a glass of water to him. Harry took it with a grateful nod, and tried to wash the disgusting taste of blood and alcohol out of his mouth. He pulled a grimace when he banged one of his fangs on the rim, due to the shaking in his hands. 

“Now what was _that_?” Malfoy asked once he had emptied the glass. Harry slid to the side to sit with his back against the bathtub, not quite ready to try getting up yet, and looked up at the man standing across from him leaning against the sink, arms crossed over his bare chest, blond hair framing his face in a tousled mess. His eyes lingered briefly on the two small punctures on Malfoy’s neck, which had produced a thin trail of blood to pool in the hollow of his collarbone. It always astonished him how tiny these wounds were. None of the blood-gushing, messy, gigantic holes the movies always depicted. No, they were just two small, round spots, and he really had to apply suction to get his fill, especially since his saliva was working its healing magic even as he drank. But then, his fangs were no where near long or sharp enough to pierce through to the artery, running deeper, beneath the vein, especially not this far down the neck. If people died from a vampire bite, it was usually one to the throat, right below the jaw, and even then... well, they usually died because the vampire was so far gone it just tore out the whole throat to get at the blood.

Harry sighed and closed his eyes briefly. 

“I hate the taste of blood,” he answered Malfoy’s question, and even he heard how tired he sounded.

“You’re a vampire,” Malfoy pointed out incredulously, and Harry opened his eyes to glare at him.

“I know!”

“You’re a vampire who can’t stomach _blood_?”

Harry’s glare grew fiercer, but he gave a choppy nod.

“Yeah.”

Malfoy just looked at him for a moment, face blank, then his lips twitched, and then he was laughing. For a long time.

Harry crossed his arms, and continued glaring at the laughing blond. Finally, Malfoy calmed down again.

“Only you,” he said, still chuckling, shaking his head. “Only you, Potter...”

“Yeah, well... trust me, it’s not nearly as funny from where I’m standing,” Harry grumbled.

“So, what do you do if you can’t keep it down?” Malfoy wanted to know. Harry knew the look he gave the man wasn’t particularly friendly.

“I _can_ keep it down. If I’m prepared, that is. I was just surprised. Believe it or not, most people don’t _seduce_ me into drinking their blood! What’s up with that, anyway?”

Malfoy grinned and shrugged, supremely unrepentant.

“Well, I sort of have a kink for vampires.” His lashes lowered slightly, his gaze going darker with desire. “I’ve wanted to fuck one ever since I was old enough to know what fucking is. Problem is, I’m not really keen on having my throat torn out, so I had a little trouble coming up with a viable way of full-filling that particular fantasy. Until I read that newspaper article about _you_ , that is.” Malfoy’s eyes were roaming over Harry again, and his tongue darted out, consciously or not, to lick his lips. Harry resisted the urge to gulp, and thought that yes, Malfoy would have made the better vampire. By far.

“Why?” he wanted to know. “What’s so different about me?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes and gave a disparaging snort that made Harry want to snarl at him. Or smack him. Or something.

“Please, Potter!” The condescending tone didn’t do anything to quell those old urges. Malfoy didn’t seem to notice. “If there’s one man who could get turned into a vampire, and keep the self-control and morals necessary to make him a safe fuck, it’s you!”

Harry blinked, and needed a moment to puzzle out that that had actually been a compliment, even if, from the tone of voice, it sounded like the opposite.

“So you, what, stalked me or something?” Now _that_ would be disturbing. Malfoy, however, shook his head.

“Nah. I would have, but then you fell of the radar, and things got pretty uncomfortable in the Wizarding world for me as well, so I retreated to the Muggle world. Running into you at the club tonight was just blind luck.” He grinned broadly. “Honestly, at first I thought I was seeing things, confusing you with someone. I could hardly believe it really _was_ you. And then you even admitted to being a vampire...” The heated gaze directed at him told Harry he’d probably triggered a host of vaguely disturbing fantasies with that admittance. Then he snorted.

“Well, didn’t turn out quite like you imagined, did it?” he couldn’t help asking ironically. 

“Well, no,” Malfoy admitted. “But then, the night’s still young. And you’re still hungry, right?” He grinned, and Harry groaned, closing his eyes again and leaning his head back against the tub.

“Don’t remind me...” he grumbled. There was the sound of movement, and then he smelled Malfoy crouching down beside him. One of his wrists was taken, and Malfoy started to tug him to his feet.

“C’mon. Let’s move this to the bedroom.”

“I just threw up,” Harry pointed out, even while he complied. “Works better than a cold shower, every time. At least for me.” Then he was almost vertical, and he had to grab onto Malfoy’s shoulders as black spots swam before his vision and his legs nearly gave out. Damn, he needed to feed, and soon. 

“Whoa!” One of Malfoy’s arms wrapped around his waist to steady him, and the blond used his hold on Harry’s wrist to drag his arm across his shoulders with the other hand. 

“Well, true, the mood is pretty much shot right now, but it doesn’t have to stay that way,” he told Harry conversationally while he led him back into the bedroom. “In fact, it won’t, if I have anything to say about it.”

Harry just sighed, because he knew perfectly well that his hunger wouldn’t stay dampened by the nausea for much longer, and with that and Malfoy’s seeming determination to have sex with him tonight... there wasn’t much Harry could muster in the way of defence. Especially since he hadn’t had sex in what felt like forever, and Malfoy was so bloody hot, and since the excitement of hunting and the prospect of feeding was very similar to the excitement of sex... No, he didn’t stand much of a chance. Then he wondered why he would even consider fighting his body on this. True, he’d never had a willing, _knowing_ donor. That was probably what made him unsure about how exactly this arrangement would work out. And then, it was _Malfoy_. Letting that particular man have any power whatsoever over him sounded like a bad idea. And since he was mostly sober again, he could actually acknowledge that. 

Malfoy deposited him on the bed, and then reached down and Harry found himself staring at the tip of an ex-Death Eater’s wand. Before he could collect his various scattered thoughts and impulses ( _Attack! Duck! What the...?_ ), Malfoy had fired a cleaning and breath-freshening charm at him, and was lowering the wand back to the nightstand. Harry released the breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding. Malfoy cocked an amused eyebrow.

“What, you thought I was going to hex you?” Harry shrugged uncomfortably, and felt a slight blush stain his cheeks. Thankfully, it was too dark for Malfoy to see it.

“I didn’t think much of anything. I’m just jumpy with people pointing wands at me.”

“Understandable, I guess.” Malfoy shrugged, and then gestured Harry to move over so he could crawl into the bed as well. “Though, if I _had_ wanted to harm you, you wouldn’t have been fast enough.”

Harry grunted. “Yeah. That’s what’s bothering me. I must be really pretty out of it...” He rolled onto his back, crossed his arms behind his head and closed his eyes for a moment.

“Yes, I thought vampires were supposed to have superior reflexes.” Malfoy’s voice came from very close by, and his breath lightly brushed Harry’s cheek. “Though, you _were_ pretty fast in the bathroom.” Malfoy chuckled. 

Harry considered glaring, but felt too lethargic to do so right now. He shrugged without opening his eyes.

“Usually, I have. Right now, I’m a little low on blood.”

A warm hand started stroking his bare chest, and Malfoy shifted his weight slightly to throw one leg over Harry’s.

“You feel cool,” he murmured, breath brushing Harry’s ear, fingers trailing arbitrary patterns across his skin. “Is that because of the blood, too?”

Harry felt himself relax under the mesmerizing touches, the scent of warm, living flesh and blood blanketing him. 

“Mm, yeah,” he answered sleepily. 

“So since when are you squeamish about blood?” Malfoy wanted to know, still in that intimate murmur. Harry sighed softly and stretched a little. It _had_ been far too long since he’d had any intimate contact with anyone. 

“Dunno,” he answered, not much louder. “Always?” A soft snort produced a puff of warm air at his ear.

“You’re a lot of things, Potter, but squeamish isn’t one of them. I’ve seen you during the war, on more than one battlefield. You never were one of those puking in the bushes afterwards.”

Harry shrugged slightly.

“Didn’t have to drink it then, did I? Certainly not other people’s blood, and certainly not whole mouthfuls of it. But you’re right, maybe it’s ‘cause of the war.” He pulled a grimace. “I’ve certainly seen too much carnage there.”

“Ever thought of getting rid of your... aversion?” Malfoy asked while he rubbed his fingers over Harry’s stomach. Harry opened one eye a little to look at him. Malfoy was lying next to him, watching him with heavy-lidded eyes, head propped up on one hand. Harry shrugged slightly in answer.

“I thought that maybe I’d get used to it over time, but so far...”

“Hm...” Malfoy shifted his weight slightly so his knee started to slip between Harry’s legs. “Maybe I can help you there.” That made Harry open both eyes to look fully at the beautiful face above him.

“Really? How?” Malfoy shrugged with his free shoulder.

“I’ve learned a thing or two as a spy. About human psychology, conditioning, that sort of thing...” And he leaned down to press his lips to Harry’s while his hand slid all the way down to grasp Harry firmly through his leather trousers. Harry let out a surprised little moan even while he answered the kiss.

“Conditioning?” he asked, slightly out of breath, when Malfoy lifted his head back up. His hand didn’t move away, though, and Harry felt his body reacting eagerly to the stimulation.

“Mhm.” Malfoy dipped his head to brush his lips along Harry’s cheek, an oddly tender gesture. “Shouldn’t be that hard to link the taste of blood with pleasure in your mind.” As if to emphasize the point, his hand squeezed and Harry felt his eyes flutter close. He opened them again at Malfoy’s husky chuckle.

“You certainly seem responsive enough to the pleasure part,” he teased, and the tone and the grin on his face for once lacked any hint of malicious intent. 

“Yeah, well...” Harry grumbled, aware he was blushing slightly, “it’s been awhile...”

“You’re not a virgin, are you?” Malfoy asked, suddenly sounding concerned. Harry gave him a _look_.

“No, Malfoy, I’m not.”

Malfoy only chuckled, apparently not the least bit fazed by Harry’s caustic tone. “Good. And you might consider calling me Draco, considering what I intend to do with you...”

It probably wasn’t healthy, but that purr was doing unholy things to Harry’s attention-starved body. 

“Only if you call me Harry,” he retorted, then wondered how he had just managed to make a competition out of _that_ one. Malfoy rolled so he was lying full-length on Harry, elbows beside his head. “My pleasure... _Harry_ ,” his voice rumbled through Harry, then Malfoy’s (fine, _Draco’s_ ) lips descended, and he was kissing Harry the way he had earlier, all lips and tongue and teeth and hungry passion.

They didn’t talk much after that, which was just fine, because Harry had trouble enough stringing thoughts together, never mind actual speech. One thing had to be said for Draco Malfoy, he was _damn_ good in bed. His hands seemed to know exactly where to stroke, sometimes firm and sometimes gentle, and his kisses, where ever he put them, were melt-worthy. His movements were smooth and controlled, full of sensual grace, even when they grew more urgent as their clothes came off the rest of the way. He also proved competent in removing Harry’s snugly-fitting leather trousers, though he did give him a raised eyebrow as he noticed the lack of underwear. Harry simply raised his eyebrow right back. Malfoy grinned, and kissed him.

The feeling of Malfoy’s smooth, hot skin on his was the most delicious thing Harry had ever felt, and contrasted nicely with the slide of the satin under his back. He hadn’t slept with anyone since before the Turning, and now he wondered why not. With his acute sense of touch it was a completely new experience. Right, after feeding he felt sick, and in between feedings he hadn’t quite trusted himself, and besides hadn’t felt it fair to his partners if they didn’t know what he was. After all, one-night stands weren’t really his thing, and how would he explain his need to go hunting to a Muggle partner?

But Malfoy was perfectly aware what he was sleeping with, so Harry had few qualms about enjoying himself, even though he certainly had never imagined that he would one day find himself in this particular man’s bed, in this particular position. But Malfoy’s weight on top of him felt heavenly, and he didn’t mind letting him top, either. Personally, he enjoyed both variations, and since Malfoy seemed insistent on topping, well... As long as he did a good job, Harry had no problem with that. 

And a good job he did. He was remarkably considerate, careful and thorough with the preparation, and he didn’t move until Harry nodded his okay and shifted his hips in encouragement. Even then, his strokes were measured and careful at first, until he found Harry’s prostate and Harry started clawing lines into his shoulders. Only then did he let go of his control and the pace turned rough, the intensity that had always been simmering between them flaring back to life, even if it did take a different form this time. 

Harry didn’t know how long it lasted, and didn’t care, either. Time melted away, and he was drowning in the heady smell of sex and the intimate touch of another man, the moans and grunts and occasional swear-word and the raw, physical pleasure he had missed for too long.

Finally, he was so very close, and all it took was two strokes from Malfoy’s knowledgeable hand and he was coming. The other man followed almost immediately, and then they were lying in a sweaty, panting, exhausted tangle of limbs on top of the bed. Harry closed his eyes and wished he could just go to sleep as he was, exhausted and sated physically. But his face was pressed into the crook of Draco’s neck, and there was the beat of his pulse, slowly returning to normal. 

“Go on,” Draco mumbled, his voice muffled by Harry’s shoulder and the covers. 

“Don’t wanna!” Harry answered and didn’t care that he was whining. Draco’s chest vibrated slightly with his chuckle, then he brought his arms down around Harry’s waist and rolled them over. Harry found himself blinking down at one ruffled, sweaty, smiling blond, and for a moment he just blinked. Damn, but the man was beautiful! Achingly so, especially like this, relaxed and open and a complete mess. 

“You need to. And if you throw up again, I’m going to feel insulted.” He reached a hand behind his head to draw several clumpy blond strands out of the way and turned his chin to the side to expose that perfect line of his neck, the side that didn’t carry the two punctures from Harry’s earlier attempt. “Go on!”

Harry sighed, and then lowered his head to take an experimental swipe of the salty skin. Draco hummed, and his arm tightened around Harry’s waist while his other hand settled back into Harry’s hair, thumb rubbing soothingly at the base of his skull.

Harry exhaled again, inhaled, and bit down. This time, he was prepared for the blood that hit his tongue and forced himself to swallow while Draco’s thumb continued it’s soothing circles. 

After he finished licking the wound clean and closed, he just lay there for some time, breathing steadily and trying to settle his stomach, while Draco’s hands rubbed his back and shoulders. It was actually nice to have someone there, he noticed. Being stroked and cuddled sure beat kneeling in front of the toilet in his cold, dark bathroom. Not that he would have ever thought Draco Malfoy would be the type to cuddle anyone.

“We really have to work on this little problem of yours,” Draco remarked when Harry relaxed again, at least a little. When Harry lifted his head to look down at him, he was met with the dark, heated look he was quite familiar with now. “Imagine actually doing that during sex...” Draco trailed off, and his expression said quite clearly that he was eager to try that out. Harry raised an eyebrow.

“So I guess that means you’d be amenable to a repeat performance?” 

Draco chuckled. “Oh, certainly. Now that I’ve found you- I’m keeping you,” he announced with a smirk. Somehow, that didn’t trigger the annoyance Harry associated with the expression. Instead, he thought it was rather... cute. Which was very disturbing. Since he didn’t know what else to do with that statement, Harry just grunted.

“I’m going to sleep,” he declared, and rolled off of Draco to do just that. Draco dragged the duvet out from under them and threw it over them. The last thing Harry remembered before falling asleep was the Cleaning Charm Draco threw at the top of his bedding.

***

Unfamiliar scents assaulted Harry’s nose when he woke up the next morning, and confusedly, he blinked open his eyes. The ceiling was white and nondescript, but the wall was on the wrong side of the bed. He pushed himself up on his elbows to take a look around and winced when several muscles (and other parts of his body) protested the motion. Other than that, though, he felt fantastic. Memories of the previous night rushed back, and he suppressed a groan. Had he really had sex with _Draco Malfoy_?

He turned his head, and sure enough, there he was, fast asleep, on his side, his back to Harry. His pale-blond hair was a mess, a handful of strands snaking over the pillow. For a moment, Harry was fascinated by the shorter, darker strands at the base of his skull. His fingers itched to run through those hairs, to find out whether they were soft or stubbly. Draco’s neck was, of course, as perfect from the back as it was from every other angle, and then Harry’s eyes landed on the black, somewhat familiar sweep of colour that covered Draco’s shoulders. Curiously, he pulled the duvet down a little, and sure enough, there it was, the tattoo of a pair of black wings he now remembered noticing once before. The craftsmanship was truly amazing, every feather a small, curling masterpiece. They looked almost real, as if he just needed to reach out a hand to feel the tickling, fluffy touch. Getting that much detail etched into his back must have been quite painful. Harry also winced at the sight of the raised, red lines that criss-crossed the feathers. The lines his nails had made the night before. It seemed he wasn’t going to be the only sore one today.

As if he had felt Harry’s gaze, Draco rolled over on his back and opened his eyes. For a moment, a slight frown crossed his face upon seeing Harry, then his expression cleared as memory returned, and his lips quirked up in a smile. He truly did have a nice smile, when he wanted to, as hard as Harry found that to believe. 

“Good morning,” Draco greeted, before yawning and stretching once, all the way from toes to the fingertips over his head. 

“Morning,” Harry answered while he had to smile at the unrestrained, somehow... innocent motion. 

Pushing himself up on his hands, Draco rolled his shoulders, and moaned softly. 

“Gods, you sure know how to leave your mark,” and now there was _nothing_ innocent in the look he slanted at Harry. Nor the half-smirk he threw his way. 

“Uh... sorry?” Draco just waved him off and collapsed back down. 

“It’s fine. I’ll take it as a compliment.” Harry rolled his eyes at the smug tone.

“That’s a pretty cool tattoo you have there,” he observed with a nod towards Draco’s shoulders.

“You like?” Draco sounded self-satisfied and off-hand both at the same time, which was quite the feat. And Harry still wasn’t used to chatting easily with his once-enemy.

“Yeah. But... why? I mean, that must have been pretty painful, with the size and all the detail...” Draco just shrugged.

“Well, it wasn’t _pleasant_ , but it was my private little reward for the end of the war to myself. Sort of a compensation for this,” he lifted his left arm where the skull-and-snake of the Dark Mark still stood in stark contrast to the white skin. “I know most people prefer to consider me one of the bad guys and don’t really like to acknowledge my part in ending this cursed war,” he gave Harry a meaningful look at that, as if he wanted to check whether he felt like that, “but I know what I did. I had to get one painful tattoo I didn’t want, so I got myself one I _did_ want.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Harry answered slowly. “In a weird kind of way,” he couldn’t help adding. 

Yes, he had never particularly liked or cared about Draco Malfoy, but that had stopped being about houses or sides when he’d finally grown up and learned that people were people, no matter where they got Sorted. Some were good, and some were bad, and most were somewhere in between. Some he liked, and some he didn’t, and Draco Malfoy had belonged, until very recently, in the latter category for entirely personal reasons. 

Now those personal reasons seemed to be on holiday as the man rolled over and smiled down on Harry like the proverbial cat that ate the canary. “And how are you this fine morning? Sore?” 

Harry glared, albeit weakly, and then shrugged as best as he could with Draco on top of him. 

“A little.”

“Hm, good.” And there was that purr again... “And when do you need to feed again?”

“Oh, not for a couple of days, four at the most.” Harry saw Draco’s face fall. 

“Eager for that, aren’t you?” he couldn’t help teasing. Draco wasn’t fazed. 

“Certainly,” he replied huskily.

“You really think you can train me out of my ‘little problem’?” Harry hardly dared to hope he wouldn’t be fighting his rebellious stomach for the rest of his life.

“Oh, yes, I think I’ll manage,” Draco purred just before his lips descended on Harry’s and his hand slipped purposefully down his stomach.

Fin


End file.
